


Pictures at an Exhibition

by danceswchopstck



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-20
Updated: 2005-11-20
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswchopstck/pseuds/danceswchopstck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser and Ray K at an art museum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures at an Exhibition

Ray was bored. I had feared that his interest might flag much earlier, but he had listened quite attentively during the docent's tour of the Impressionists exhibit. However, once we were browsing through the permanent collection, Ray's demeanor changed completely. He bounced on his toes, and flicked his bracelet irritably, and he scowled through his glasses at most of the works of art. At the moment, he was staring at a rather idealized depiction of lightly clad young women dancing in a meadow.

He said, "I gotta tell you, Frase, this is not what I'd call hot porn. What was wrong with these old guys that they couldn't paint hotness?"

I said, "Actually, Ray, I'm not at all sure that this painting was intended as pornography. I believe it's an allegory of the seasons--"

He interrupted, "Yeah, yeah, okay. But if you're going to paint chicks, why not paint good-looking chicks?"

I didn't want to discuss artists' reasons for making art when Ray was in that sort of mood. However, I remembered a related idea that was of some interest, at least to me: "I recently encountered a most interesting book, Ray, that advanced the theory that fashions in the appearance of the body change much as fashions in clothes do. What is considered attractive in one country or one century may be quite different from what is considered attractive in the next. This book, _Seeing Through Clothes--_ "

Ray snorted at that point, just as I expected, and then said, "Could we, like, move along, here? These guys aren't doing it for me."

I said, "Certainly, Ray. Would you prefer art from another culture or another century? I believe we can get a map of the museum by retracing our steps to the front door."

"They gotta keep maps more than one place. And guards, right? Let's not backtrack if we don't hafta."

"As you wish, Ray." I followed him to an adjoining gallery, which appeared to contain paintings that might loosely be classified as 'Dutch Masters.' Ray bypassed two fine still-lifes, then suddenly halted to examine a portrait of a cheerful young man holding a mug of beer.

"Right," said Ray. "This guy, this kinda guy, I have definitely met--this is pretty close to real. I figure booze has put this guy in the lock-up about three times, so far, but it'll take about five more times before his girlfriend dumps him."

"You could be right, Ray."

Ray moved on to view other paintings, and I tarried a few moments to admire the nearer of the two still-lifes. When I looked up, Ray was standing before a portrait of a stern-faced woman in her later middle years, dressed in black brocade and a white ruff. As I approached, Ray looked her up and down, and then said, "Now _this_ lady, you better pray that she doesn't live in your precinct and that her house never gets broken into, because if it does, she will run the case for you from start to finish and make you say 'Yes, ma'am, no, ma'am, thank you kindly, ma'am,' all the way through. Jeez, what a battle-ax."

"She does, indeed, have that appearance."

"OK, Frase, these guys are better than the chicks wearing window curtains, but could we go check out something that was painted, in, like, this century?"

"Certainly, Ray. I believe that part of the collection is housed in this direction. Was there something in particular that you'd like to see?"

Ray frowned. "Well, maybe. There are a couple of guys whose paintings I've seen in books. If they have any pictures those guys painted, I wouldn't mind a closer look."

"Who would those painters be, Ray?"

"I can't remember the names right. Something like Hopkins? And maybe Wyatt?"

Those names sounded more literary than painterly to me, but I didn't wish irritate Ray by saying so. Instead, I said, "I don't immediately recognize the names--what kind of work did they do?"

"Hopkins painted people who usually looked like they weren't having a good day. People in diners, people on porches, people in movie theater lobbies."

"Ah," I said, "I believe you may mean Edward Hopper. Quite a well-known American representational painter."

"Representational, Frase?"

"Depicting recognizable objects or persons, Ray, as distinguished from abstract paintings--"

"--that no one can make head or tail of, right."

I sighed, but continued, "Is Wyatt's work similar?"

"Yeah, in a way. It's people again, but mostly kind of in the country--his neighbors, maybe. He painted this one chick with her hair in braids over and over. And there was a lot of painting in his family--his father painted pirates, and his son painted sheep and pumpkins. Weird, hunh?"

"Ah--the Wyeths. Andrew Wyeth is the one whose work you like."

"Wyeth, yeah."

Fortuitously, at that moment, the docent from our earlier tour came into view. I approached. "Excuse me. Can you tell us where we could find any works by Edward Hopper or Andrew Wyeth that the museum may be exhibiting at present?" Behind me, I could hear Ray fidgeting, but thankfully he did not interrupt.

The docent smiled and gestured. "You'll find two Wyeths in the gallery after next, both currently on loan to us. I'm afraid I can't help you with Hopper. I don't believe we have any of his originals, though our Gift Shop may have a book or two about him."

"Thank you kindly--that's most helpful." Before I could say more, Ray grabbed my elbow and hustled me away.

"Frase, what's with this asking shit? I could have found the Wyeths myself. Detective, remember?"

"The collections here are quite large, Ray. It would be a pity to miss an interesting work by chance."

"I wouldn't miss it. Them."

"Perhaps not, but you might miss the start of tonight's game. The time needed for an exhaustive search--"

"Okay, okay. You got a point."

The indicated gallery was a large one, but Ray was standing before two Wyeths almost at once, silent and intent. I waited, curious to hear what he would say about the paintings. After long moments, Ray spoke.

"See, here's what makes me nuts--this guy puts something in his pictures that you can't actually see. This picture--an empty room, right? Probably a church. No people, nothing that shouldn't be there, but it gives me a real spooky feeling, kind of like a case before you know what kind of case you got. How does he do that? How do I know that I'm missing something important?"

"Well, Ray, speculation might--"

"Yeah, wait, sorry--rhetorical question. Lemme finish. Now _this_ picture, I can tell you what it is. What I think it is. This chick with the braids, she looks OK, but she's not the kind of looker a guy would paint umpteen times unless he had some kind of thing about her. But I hear he was married and I know this chick wasn't his wife. So whether he loved her or just wanted her, he didn't have her all the way, and he _couldn't_ have her all the way without hurting his wife. He had _something_ with her, and there were beautiful parts, but other parts were seriously fucked up. Yeah. Beautiful but also wrong. I get that, no problem. But this spooky church room, I don't get that at _all._ "

"That's a very interesting analysis, Ray."

"I'm gonna stare at this one a little longer, Frase. You want to look at something else for awhile, go ahead, will you?"

So I left Ray to his cogitations, and took the opportunity to become more familiar with the part of the collection in the immediate vicinity. The works in question did not have the immediate appeal that I found in Impressionist paintings, but I was able to occupy myself satisfactorily enough that I quite lost track of time.

At length, I heard Ray's footsteps behind me, and turned to meet him.

"What are you looking at?"

I turned back to painting that had absorbed me for the past few minutes. "This prize-fighting scene. What do you think of it?"

Ray inspected the scene. "Coulda been a real fight, a real place, real everything. This guy either knew fights or remembered good. But he wasn't a fighter himself."

"What makes you say that, Ray?"

"He painted it the way it looks and feels for the people who watch fights. If he'd been a fighter, it would feel different. Feel like a fighter feels."

"I suppose that makes sense. Are you finished with the Wyeths?"

"Yeah, I'm not gonna get any more than I got now. Let's go get a pizza and watch the game."

"All right. By the way, what is it that you like about Hopper's work?"

As we walked, Ray said, "Simple. You can tell that Hopper went to real places and knew real people and had bad days and felt bad about how things went down. And he couldn't change it, but he could paint it. I'm not saying I'd want to look at it every day, but I respect the way he just lays it out there, for real."

"He does, indeed."

Our path to the museum exit took us past some works of art that we hadn't seen earlier. I noted some Asian scrolls and jade carvings that I would certainly want to admire on another occasion, but didn't stop or mention them. To my surprise, it was Ray who halted us to gaze and comment.

"Hunh. I didn't see _this_ before." It was a large painting of a dark-haired young man, reclining and nearly naked, with smooth, white, muscled limbs and torso glowing against a dark background. Possibly by Caravaggio, or one of his students?

Ray pointed at the painting with both forefingers. "Now _this_ guy knew what pornography was. Oh, yeah."

I looked at Ray, then at the painting. "Ah. Ray, it appears to me that this painting represents a young man."

"So?"

"Not a woman."

"Duh, Frase. There's such a thing as porn with men in it. For women, or gay men, or anybody that's smart enough to know that skin is skin and hotness is hotness. _This_ is hotness."

I looked at the painting more carefully. "I suspect that 'hotness' is largely in the eye of the beholder, Ray."

"Could be you're too close to it," said Ray. I lifted my eyebrows, shrugged, and increased the distance between the painting and myself. "No, not like that," said Ray, "I mean, you must be pretty used to looks like that. You see it in your own mirror all the time, right?"

I sighed. "Ray."

"Right?" He was still gazing at me intently.

"Twenty years ago, there was possibly some resemblance. But really, Ray, appearance is not--"

"Not _what_ , Frase? And do not diss your appearance or I'll kick you in the head. Your appearance is just fine. You aren't anywhere _near_ your expiration-of-hotness date." He looked at the painting appreciatively. "Hot." Then he slowly looked me up and down, his eyes gleaming mischievously. "Very hot."

Certainly, my face felt very hot at that moment. I had never anticipated that Ray would--

His eyes holding mine, Ray said, "Fraser. Pizza. Game."

"As you wish, Ray."

"Then pitter patter! _Mush!_ "

My feet moved before my mind fully recognized the dog-sledding command. I found myself following as Ray strode toward the museum's exit. Some strange magnetic phenomenon seemed to focus my gaze on his long legs, his sinewy shoulders. My hands developed an unaccountably empty feeling, almost as if I were experiencing hunger in the skin of my palms. I found myself reaching out to touch him--but he kept just out of reach.

And then I realized what I was doing, and how much my thoughtless actions could cost me.

Just out of reach, indeed.

Oh, dear.  


**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in the autumn of 2005, and very helpfully beta'd by LJ user mondschein1 (thanks again!). At the time, I had nowhere to announce the story, so I put off making the last few modifications until I found the LJ community ds_noticeboard, a couple of months later. Thanks to that community for providing the first venue for this story. Feedback is still welcome.
> 
> For anyone interested in body image and art, I do recommend the book that Fraser mentions in this story, _Seeing Through Clothes_ , by Anne Hollander. The paintings mentioned in this story are also real (to the extent that I remember them correctly), but the setting and the exhibition in this story are wholly fictional.


End file.
